


Adonais, Besieged

by SweetSorcery



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Romantic Poets RPF
Genre: 1810s, 19th Century, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Comeplay, Companionable Snark, Don’t copy to another site, Enemies to Lovers, Flirting, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gentle Kissing, Gentleness, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Humor, Italy, Kissing, Love, M/M, Male Slash, Moonlight, Multi, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, POV Alternating, Picnics, Pining, Poetry, Polyamory, Rimming, Rival Sex, Rivalry, Roma | Rome, Romance, Rough Kissing, Seduction, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Skinny Dipping, Slash, Snark, Summer, Swimming, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Water Sex, Wet & Messy, Worship, Yuleporn, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 14:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/SweetSorcery
Summary: A summer evening in Rome, an idyllic setting, and three Romantic poets with rather complicated feelings about one another. Anything might happen.





	Adonais, Besieged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prinzenhasserin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/gifts).



> Oh, recipient mine, I was beside myself with joy when I received this assignment - literally my favourite request made this Yuletide season, for more reasons than I can list! And so many of your likes are also mine, it was so hard to choose. I left the exact time setting open to interpretation, and to the possibility of an earlier stay in Rome, so we can think of this as simply being "happier times". As for the place - at least two of them have a known connection to it.  
> Have a wonderful holiday season. I sincerely hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! 😏

  


Of all the beautiful, secluded places in the gardens of the Villa Borghese in Rome, none was more beautiful, or more secluded, than a small lake tucked away amidst trees, and its decorative temple built scarcely more than 30 years before.

The enchantment of the place was not lost on Keats, though surpassed by that of his companion, as they made their way through the lush greenery towards their destination. He smiled at the way low-hanging branches repeatedly snagged Shelley's dark curls, forcing him to bat them out of the way as they went, lest he be turned into a dryad. Shelley was unnecessarily tall, Keats thought, fondly.

They soon reached a spot they both knew to be perfect for a private meeting, with a glorious view of the sun as it descended in the West. They spread out their blanket and set down the picnic basket beside it.

"At last. What a spectacularly hot day. Thank heavens for the trees!" Shelley collapsed theatrically upon the blanket and patted the space beside him, smiling up at Keats.

Keats settled in next to him, sighing in both relief at having arrived somewhere shady and dread of the reason they were there in the first place. "The place is magnificent, Percy, and I love being here with you," he admitted. "What I wish to know is this - why must I meet _him_? I can think of nothing worse than to while away the late afternoon listening to His Lordship hold forth about how very grand he is."

Shelley chuckled. "I wish I could guarantee that will not happen, but while Byron possesses many a fine quality, humility is not one of them."

"Then why?" Keats glanced across the lake at the Grecian structure on the opposite bank, resolving to make a closer inspection of it, should Byron prove to be too much of a bore. He expected the opportunity to make a full tour of the temple.

"Frankly, I do believe that once you get to know each other, you may become fast friends."

Keats looked at him as if he quite despaired at Shelley's state of mind. "Friends? With a man who thinks me an uncouth peasant, even while he has never met me?"

"He is a snob, I will admit, and judges too much based on titles or wealth. He is also far too used to being admired and adored."

"I ought to tell you, Percy, that you are doing little to cast the man in a more favourable light," Keats pointed out.

Shelley laughed. "Oh, John! I know his faults, but I know his strengths as well." He carefully plucked some red grapes off a length of vine while considering how best to explain. "He has been known to admit when he was wrong, and to make amends wholeheartedly. And he is _certainly_ wrong about you, my dear."

Keats looked at him softly. "Percy, I will meet him, but only for your sake. I wish us to be very clear on that."

Shelley nodded solemnly. "Quite clear. Now, have some cheese and wine, and be good."

Within the half hour, Keats had nearly forgotten they were waiting for another. He lay stretched out on his back, eyes closed despite the shade provided by the willow branches swaying above them, right leg bent at the knee, left crossed over it, bare foot tapping up and down in midair. They had both discarded their shoes and stockings some time ago for added comfort.

The gardens were such a leafy paradise, paradoxically central in the busy ancient city, sprawling behind the Piazza di Spagna. Keats was quite content to while away the rest of the day with Shelley at his side. If pressed, he might admit he would not mind staying there with him forever, as long as there was an ample supply of paper, ink and quills available to them both. He silently praised the Borghese family for allowing access to their land to a select few - like Shelley and his friends.

Shelley lay supported on his right forearm, fingers of his left hand playing with a loose thread on Keats' shirt sleeve, reading him a few lines he had written, ostensibly, about the moon.

 _"Art thou pale for weariness?_  
_Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,_  
_Wandering companionless_  
_Among the stars that have a different birth,_  
_And ever changing, like a joyless eye_  
_That finds no object worth its constancy?"_

"Bravo!" came a deep, drawling voice, and Shelley looked up and smiled at the new arrival.

"George, you have certainly taken your time."

"One cannot rush a good thing, Percy."

Keats rolled his eyes. There was an expectant silence, during which he turned to look over his shoulder without sitting up. He would not confirm Byron's low opinion of him by displaying improper manners, so he said, "Good afternoon, Your Lordship." His voice was both perfectly polite and dripping sarcasm in every syllable.

Byron stared at him somewhat foolishly, and Keats concluded he had not known to expect him.

"George, meet my dear friend John. John, meet my dear friend George. Well, that is done." Shelley smiled between them as though he expected them to embrace, kiss and begin a game of tag.

"Charmed, I am sure," Keats lied, and returned to enjoying the view across the glistening water, by that point having given up on receiving even a perfunctory greeting in return.

In fact, Byron had yet to speak again at all. Eventually, he gave a snort, and then said, "John... Keats, I presume? Well, good afternoon, I suppose." He turned to give Shelley a stern look and made no effort to keep his voice low. "Really, Percy, when you sent me a missive requesting my company for the evening, you never mentioned it would not be enough for you."

"Oh, do try not to be an ass, George. Sit with us, eat, drink. And for goodness' sake, relax that frown of yours before it makes your head hurt."

"Or worse, ruffles those famous, carefully positioned curls." Keats absently reached back to the small fruit bowl, fished for a cherry, and began to nibble on it.

Byron looked down at Keats. "Well, sir, at least you have perceived that it would be a shame to ruffle them. Perhaps you are not a complete philistine."

Shelley sighed, while Keats shook his head gently from side to side and remained silent, having no intention of taking Byron's bait. He delicately spat out his cherry stone in an arc, to land in the grass some way ahead.

"Come now. We are all three fellow poets. We must be friends." This was Shelley's attempt at diplomacy.

Both Keats and Byron looked at him in some astonishment, and with expressions they would have hated to be told were rather similar.

"There are times, Percy, that I feel sure you exist only half in this world, and half in another," Keats told his friend.

"Is that not what they say of all in our profession?" Shelley asked cheerfully.

"A fair point, I suppose." Byron, at last, dropped his cloak on the ground carelessly and lowered himself to the blanket with the aid of his cane, which he then quickly discarded as if to pretend he had never needed it at all.

His use of it was subtle, and his companions both ignored it, knowing why he did make use of it. Shelley was sensitive to it from deep friendship. Keats saw no need to draw attention to what he had heard was a source of frequent pain and self-consciousness to the otherwise proud man. However low Byron's opinion was of him, _he_ was never cruel.

In fact, Keats largely succeeded at ignoring Byron for the time being. He lay with his eyes closed, enjoying the last of the sun as it caressed his face and the bare skin of his neck and upper chest while, behind him, Shelley and Byron caught up on their latest news. Now and then, Shelley would attempt to draw him into the conversation, which led to Byron attempting to push him out of it again. In all, he was happy to simply let them chatter for as long as he could get away with it.

Shelley soon busied himself with a champagne bottle, instructing his friends to find the glasses in the basket. He was pleased to see Keats turn on his stomach to face Byron and himself, and not merely because Keats' light skin had acquired a most enticing, healthy, sun-kissed glow he loved to see. Watching both of them by turns, Shelley smirked and wondered how long they would manage to be civil for his sake. He was frightfully fond of them both, but was uncertain how to topple Byron off his high horse, or how to prevail upon Keats to help him up once he hit the ground. Then again, he thought, noting how Byron's eyes lingered on Keats' flushed cheeks and the golden skin wherever it was exposed, perhaps Byron's defeat would not come about at his hands at all.

The three of them toasted one another, expressing the hope, after some hesitation, that all their works should meet with critical acclaim.

"You chose a strange time of day for a picnic, Percy," Keats stated, as the sun was now very low in the sky. "Though why I should be surprised, I do not know. You have the strangest ideas of any man I know."

"Is that not what you love about me, my dear?" Shelley teased, well aware of Byron's raised brow as he glanced between them.

Keats laughed. It was a musical sound Shelley knew well, but which Byron had not expected, and he now quite definitely stared at Keats as though he had only just arrived at the scene.

"I would not call it love," said Keats, with a softness which belied his words, "but it is one of the eccentricities I can put up with for your sake." He smiled at Shelley, his hazel eyes shining up at him. His back was to the sunset as he lay swirling the remaining liquid about the glass he held in long, slim fingers. The dreamy light cast a soft halo around the auburn waves of his hair.

Byron's eyes were fixed on the sight, until he drained his glass of champagne with sudden thirst, only barely avoiding a coughing fit.

"You have fallen uncommonly silent, George. Whatever has left you speechless?" Shelley teased. He knew quite well, from pleasant personal experience, how swiftly and easily Byron's blood grew heated at either a challenge or a delicately handsome countenance; Keats, as luck would have it, presented both in abundance.

Byron attempted to control his features, despite Keats' large eyes now looking up at him, wide mouth curled in amusement at his expense. "I am pondering the words you recited as I arrived," he muttered. "To what mythical beauty are they dedicated?"

Shelley laughed. "Why the moon, of course. Though I doubt I shall ever do anything with them. They lack passion."

"I do not blame you, Percy," said Keats lethargically. "I too would find it hard to be passionate about something cold and pale which looks down upon me." He spoke almost to himself. The way his hand supported his chin lent his lips something of a pout.

Byron fidgeted for a moment, then reached for a bright red apple and bit into it with unnecessary vigour.

"Are you still sore about that uninformed review, John?" Shelley asked sympathetically, even while amused at Byron's dilemma. "Never listen to your critics, dear heart. Only to those who praise you."

Keats smiled with one side of his mouth. "If I did that, I should become a conceited oaf, should I not, Your Lordship?" He briefly glanced at Byron.

Byron eyes narrowed. "Quite right. You should most definitely take the words of your critics to heart, _Mister_ Keats."

Keats looked amused. He rose to sit on his haunches to finish the last of his champagne. His diminutive height might not be intimidating while he was on his feet, but like this, he could at least be eye level with the seated Byron. "I do hope you listen to your own advice, _George_."

By this point, Byron was leaning forward, yet quite unaware of the fact. His face was close enough to Keats for him to note the few freckles sprinkled across his straight nose and high cheekbones. "Rather bold of you to assume that my works meet with harsh critiques, _John_."

Keats laughed. "I take it then you have quite forgotten the Edinburgh Review's opinion of your _Hours of Idleness_? I was too young to take an interest at the time, but one hears things."

Shelley winced. That particular piece had put a then 19-year-old Byron in a frightful rage, and he did not look much calmer now. Yet despite Byron's evident annoyance, he was still staring at Keats as though attempting to decide whether to kill or kiss him. Shelley sighed. "Oh, really. I have a good mind to throw both of you into the lake to cool you down. You act like children."

"I should like to see you try, Percy," Byron challenged, launching another assault on the hapless apple, his eyes once more fixed on Keats' infuriating mouth.

Keats said nothing. He had no doubt Shelley would have little trouble pitching him into the lake without the need to even stand up first.

Shelley chuckled. "Well, perhaps I will throw myself in instead."

Both Byron and Keats straightened up with a start and looked at him in concern.

"You cannot swim, Percy!" exclaimed Keats.

"The fool would jump in merely to test how long it will take him to drown," grumbled Byron.

The two men shared a worried gaze, while Shelley stripped off his shirt. He was half out of his breeches by the time they looked at him again.

"Have a care, Percy," Byron said firmly.

"Oh really, George. I intend merely to go in to refresh myself. If I should look in need of saving, you will be the man to do it. I know how well you swim, and you can impress John with your athleticism."

"What--" Keats started, equal parts confused about the remark and interested in the view, when Shelley stripped off the last shred of fabric and gave him a wink over his shoulder, before hurrying to the banks of the lake; he looked as though he was determined to race the descending sun to their respective destinations.

"Damn the man," Byron spat, clambering to his feet without taking the time to make it easier by using the cane again. He winced in momentary pain, but otherwise ignored it.

Keats stared dumbfounded as Byron, too, tore his shirt from his breeches and struggled out of his clothing. He looked about, grateful to see no one else nearby. He supposed there was nothing to stop someone simply going for a swim, or stripping off for any other reason. They were, after all, on private property, and this was Italy, not jolly old England.

When he looked back up at Byron, now quite naked, he gulped. Shelley had certainly not exaggerated about the man's athleticism, judging purely by his muscle definition. He now also understood what he had meant when remarking on Byron's... equine qualities; considering he was face to face with them.

Byron, clearly used to being stared at, seemed pleased about the attention. "Will you come or not?" He sounded somewhat less annoyed than he had intended.

"Excuse me?" Keats asked, agog.

"Shelley, for heaven's sake. He has no more idea how to stay afloat than a stone would."

Keats swore softly under his breath, which caused Byron to smirk so briefly, it might never have happened. He rose too, already peeling off both his shirt and breeches at once. "I'm frankly not much of a swimmer," he admitted while he shrugged out of his garments. "Though I dare say I do better than Percy." He straightened up to pull his shirt over his head, and when he lowered his bare arms, blowing a puff of breath up towards his brow to dislodge a curl caught on his lashes, he found Byron gawking at him. Much to his confusion, as he did not think himself anything to gawk at.

"You are tiny," Byron said stupidly.

Keats frowned at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Not..." Byron looked down and smirked, then met the temperamental dark eyes again. "Overall, I mean. I had no idea."

"Well, now you know," Keats said acidly. "May my lack of height grant you hours of amusement during lonely evenings."

"I am not generally cursed with lonely evenings," Byron said, sounding far too pleased and somewhat challenging.

"Well, you may be if you lose a good friend. While you stand there chuckling, sir, Percy is probably communing with mermaids. Or lakemaids, as it were."

This spurred Byron into action, and he hurried to the banks of the lake, his limp more pronounced when he rushed than at a normal pace; Keats followed, determinedly not looking at any part of the man.

Shelley was floating at the edge of the water, hands firmly clutching onto reeds at his sides, his body submerged to the collarbones, legs stretched out in front of him and splashing.

"What took you so long?" he asked, then laughed when Byron grumbled something uncomplimentary, before jumping into the lake in an impressive arc, splashing both of them liberally.

"What a dreadful poser your friend is," Keats muttered, shivering from the cold water raining down on him, even as he could not help being a little impressed.

Byron surfaced many yards out into the lake, brushed his hair back from his face, and turned towards them as if he expected applause.

"He is, but do you not agree he has much to show off?" Shelley grinned. Despite the lighting making it somewhat harder to tell, he would have placed a good amount of money on Keats blushing.

"And he knows it and makes sure we do," Keats said.

"We?" Shelley chuckled darkly. "Oh no, my dear, this display is not for my benefit. I have seen everything before."

Keats looked down, his look of horror replaced by a slow smile when Percy said, "Come in, John. It's warm enough to be pleasant and cool enough to be refreshing." Once Keats had waded in and was lazily paddling beside him, Shelley added, "And if you should be too cold, I would be more than happy to warm you up."

"Would you really?" Keats shook his head. "You are an awful tease, Percy. I despair of you."

"You do not. Not really." Percy reached out with his right hand, fingers just tangling in the soft waves of hair behind John's ear. He sank a little, gripping the reeds harder with his left hand, and then found himself nudged up again in the water by Keats' slight body propelling itself forward and against him - weight disadvantage meaningless in the water. 

Keats' arms went around him, and his hands came to rest on the low shore behind.

"That is better," Percy murmured against the soft lips, now barely a breath away. "Do you know, John, that you wear the scent of sunlight and lush, green things?"

Keats smiled. "One of those has only just departed, and we are surrounded by the others. I fear you give me credit for the splendours of nature."

"Perhaps I do," Shelley conceded. "Or perhaps, you are such a precious thing that nature is proud to lavish her splendours upon you. You certainly fill me to the brim with Pagan worship." He closed the last inch of distance between them, pressing his mouth to Keats' softly and tightening the hand in his hair, just a little.

When Shelley's lips parted, Keats imitated him. He was still, always, a little hesitant, not yet very used to the touch of a man, the different shape of his lips, the very different pressure points between naked bodies. Shelley had been teaching him all he knew, and the lessons were always most enjoyable.

"Touch me, John," Percy urged, nudging his hips forward, and Keats dipped one hand into the water, while holding on to the grass with the other, and closed it around the half-hard cock pressing against his thigh.

"That is unexpected, considering the water's temperature," he told Shelley, who laughed huskily.

"It must be the company, and the anticipation of your touch. You are both tender and wonderfully nimble-fingered." Shelley, deep blue eyes closing as his neck arched, moaned softly. "You could play a fine instrument as easily as wield a quill."

"Unless my memory deserts me, he _is_ playing a fine instrument." Byron swam up to them.

Keats was glad the light now was provided only by the moon. To have a witness to this, even if what he did, he did underwater, was rather more than he had bargained for. Not that he would give Byron the satisfaction of letting him know this. "I am indeed," he said, proud that his voice barely wavered.

Shelley did not fare so well, saying croakily, "And he wields a fine tongue as well. Kiss me again, John, I beg of you."

Keats was more than happy to, not merely because to kiss Percy was a delight, but because it would hide his face from Byron's much too close scrutiny. Percy's hand was pressed between his shoulder blades now, both to keep him close and for added counter pressure. He moaned and jolted under his caresses, which spurred Keats on to make him lose control just as soon as he was able.

When Shelley cried out, shuddering against him as he released into the cool lake water, Keats smiled against his cheek, placing a tender kiss there.

"My Adonais," Shelley whispered, audible only to Keats himself, who never could understand what it was about him that had made Shelley choose such an exalted endearment. He certainly did not think himself divine in any way.

He was about to respond, when Shelley turned and climbed up onto the bank, water streaming off his nude, moonlit body as rain off a statue, and said, "I shall have a rest after that glorious exhaustion. The two of you will be able to take a real swim without being distracted by my potential demise." He laughed as he walked off on visibly unsteady legs.

Keats narrowed his eyes, annoyed at being left on his own with Byron ominously floating nearby. Furthermore, he now had a rather urgent problem of his own - one to which he had hoped Shelley would attend. He turned, ignoring Byron altogether, and swam out into the centre of the small lake, towards the temple.

He reached it within a couple of minutes, and it was barely more than a folly, but lovely nonetheless. He lifted himself out of the water to sit on one of the pale, flat rocks, enjoying the coolness of the night air on his wet skin after the day's oppressive heat.

"The Temple of Aesculapius, is it not?"

Keats grit his teeth and saw Byron in the water just beside him, looking up at him, rather than at the temple. "Yes, it is," he said. "The god of healing, truth and prophecy."

"Quite. Are you not a trained apothecary?" Byron asked, "I suppose you must be drawn to it."

"I am drawn to it because it is beautiful." Keats lay back and supported the back of his neck with one arm. He was well aware Byron was staring at him, could practically feel his eyes moving up and down his body. He was far from ugly, he knew, even if he was not the fine specimen that Shelley was, or the rather exaggeratedly endowed Byron. He refused to feel in any way ashamed of his nakedness, especially as it was quite dark. He was unaware of the enticing silver edges lent to his limbs by the moon.

"I too am drawn to that which is beautiful," Byron told him, voice gone dark and even deeper than usual.

"Daily, from what one hears."

Byron laughed. It was not the light, boyish laugh of Shelley, but a sound more like a warning bell, or an aging dog, Keats thought uncharitably.

"And you, I gather, are drawn to Percy."

Keats glanced at him. "I trust arriving at that conclusion has not been too strenuous for your mind, Your Lordship?"

"What happened to _George_?"

Keats raised a brow. "Surely you prefer lofty titles and adulation?"

"Not from one I am about to take as a lover."

Keats stared. The pompous fool was not joking. He saw him bobbing there in front of him, looking his fill, expression unbearably smug, and his mouth dropped open. Thinking it best to not even validate such an absurd statement by acknowledging it, he stood, turned slightly to his side, and jumped into the lake as far away from Byron as he could. Then he began to swim back to the other bank.

Byron, damn him and his skills as a swimmer, simply fell in beside him, having not the least trouble keeping up with the speed which, to Keats, proved rather exhausting. Of course the great bear probably had the better part of a foot on him in height, being nearly as tall as Shelley, and was not prone to sudden exhaustion.

The latter troubled him somewhat when he reached the other shore, and he dragged himself out of the water with less grace than usual, much to his annoyance. Then he was lifted up and hit a wall shaped like the front of Byron's body.

"Unhand me, sir," Keats hissed.

Byron looked down at him with a strange expression and a slight frown, arms around him like a vice. "You are freezing cold."

"Obviously. I have just swum in a cold lake." Keats pushed the man back with all the strength he could muster and made his way back to their picnic spot, where Shelley lay on his back, still gloriously nude and pretending to be sleeping, at the very edge of the blanket.

Keats cursed him silently, despite his fondness for him. He settled down beside him, uncomfortably aware that Byron, hot on his heels, would invariably take the only remaining spot, leaving him wedged between the two. He reached for his clothes, but his hands were stilled.

"You will end up wet and chilled for hours, John," Shelley told him. "Let yourself dry a little, so that your clothes may actually provide some warmth once you don them again."

Byron fell down on his other side, and Keats capitulated. "Very well." He sat with his arms wrapped around his drawn up knees, uncomfortably aware that his companions were sharing looks behind his back.

Shelley murmured, "I deserted you rather inconsiderately earlier. Let me make it up to you and warm you in the process."

Keats closed his eyes. The promise was rather tempting, even while he was not fool enough to think he would only be warmed by Shelley. A small, treacherous part of him - the part which thrilled unspeakably at the acts of passion Shelley had taught him about - wanted to find out what it would be like to be at the mercy of two male lovers at once.

"Adonais..." Shelley's lips were at his ear. "Let us worship you. You know I already do," he whispered, his breath teasing the cool lobe of Keats' ear. "George is quite beside himself with want and, believe me, I have seen him wanting people before now."

Keats snickered, but moaned softly when Shelley told him, "Would it not be grand to unman him completely by making him plead for your favour?"

Turning his face fully towards Shelley, Keats murmured, "I love your deviousness," and allowed himself to be kissed - softly at first, then with rising passion.

He did not recoil when a hand cupped his left shoulder, and another pair of lips - full and unexpectedly soft, pressed against his nape, then made a slow excursion over the slope towards his shoulder and then down his back, lingering on each section of his spine while a large, warm hand caressed his shoulder blades and below, infusing his lungs with as pleasant a heat as his skin.

Keats was tipped back slowly, caught by a strong arm under his nape and another winding around his middle. Meanwhile Shelley continued kissing his lips, his chin, his neck, then lapped at its base where his pulse beat excessively fast.

Then Byron's mouth was on his left cheek before moving down the side of his neck, lingering there awhile. Soon, damp curls were brushing the underside of his jaw and his collarbones. Byron moved to fasten his lips on his left nipple and, when he gasped, his open mouth was invaded by Shelley's tongue, his taste familiar and comforting in the maelstrom of too many sensations at once.

The arm around his middle moved, and Byron's great paw swept over his rib cage, boldly, without hesitation, the touch hotter than it should be right after a refreshing swim. When the fingers slid through the curls surrounding the base of his cock, and the palm wrapped around him without preamble, he jolted.

"Hush, let go," Shelley beseeched him, his right hand joining Byron's for a moment, but then bypassing his grip to press between Keats' thighs, urging them apart to caress the soft flesh on the insides. "Your skin here has the texture of rose petals," he whispered.

Keats smiled softly, then groaned when Byron's grip tightened, his strokes lengthening and increasing in speed the harder his plaything grew, and he wondered how long it would be before Shelley's rose petals would be glistening with dew.

Shelley shifted down, his legs now more in the grass than on the blanket, and he covered Byron's hand and arrested its movements, smirking up at him, and at Keats, before closing his sweet mouth over the tip, tongue sliding beneath it.

"Uh," Keats gasped out, legs spreading wider of their own accord, giving Shelley more room to move, his hands more skin to caress.

Byron's hand left him, and Keats was about to complain, much to his own horror, when he saw the man rummage in the basket before holding a small bottle of olive oil aloft. "Percy," he said, and Shelley took it from him, then met Keats' eyes again.

"We will take care of you, my dear. You shall see."

Keats nodded at him, still half wondering what exactly to expect from Byron in all this, when the hand which had just handed over the oil took his chin and turned his face and, for a moment, moonlight and all, the look in the eyes for which Keats could not settle on a colour description, was wholly different - passionate, admiring.

"The moon might be cold and pale," Byron told him, "but may he not try to please and let his touch caress the earth?"

Keats opened his mouth to respond, he knew not what, when the man leaned in and covered it with his own. This kiss was not tender and sweet like Shelley's kisses. It was hungry, demanding, and it took Keats' breath away and replaced it with Byron's. The hand on his chin traced his jaw, buried itself in his hair, and cupped the back of his head. It left him quite dizzy, and he wondered, having heard tales of women fainting at the mere sight of Byron, whether they had been kissed by him before and their bodies remembered the effect.

Dizzy or not, he remained well aware of Shelley's tender, slow explorations. He felt his fingers, slicked with oil, as they entered him slowly, one by one, each taking the time to circle and stretch, move gently in and out, before another was added. There was so much oil, and he blushed, even in the silvery darkness, at the sounds made by the thrusting digits preparing him.

"Turn over, my dear," Shelley coaxed a little later, lifting him with both hands under his buttocks.

Keats was turned easily, and even more so when Byron's strong arms simply wrapped around his waist and drew him on top of himself, and he gasped at the sensation of the extravagant cock sliding along his own.

"Lovely," Shelley breathed, spreading his legs wider, exposing him to what was thankfully only moonlight and Shelley's eyes and... Shelley's... tongue, swiping across his hole quite unexpectedly, before pushing inside.

"God, Percy, what are you _doing_?" Keats exclaimed, blushing at the laughter from the man keeping him aloft, and then Shelley's on re-emerging.

"Acquiring a fierce hunger for the taste of olive oil," Shelley joked. "I could not help it, John. You should see yourself stretched and glistening like this." His fingers resumed their earlier activity, causing Keats to buck hard against Byron, who grunted and closed his eyes.

"I doubt I ever shall," Keats managed to gasp out.

"Then you must take my word for it - you are a vision." Shelley's voice was soft. Loving, even. And when he placed his tender hands on the globes of Keats' arse, spreading it and lining himself up, Keats held his breath.

"Please," he gasped and, though it was not directed at Byron, the man shivered and his cock twitched against his belly, to Keats' surprise.

Then he was distracted thoroughly, because Shelley slid into him, easily and painlessly, through possibly the entire bottle's worth of oil, and Keats trembled, held firm from below and above, pinned between pleasures like a delirious butterfly - his heart fluttering as the poor creature's wings might do.

"You should see his eyes, Percy," Byron whispered.

Keats blinked down at the man letting his gaze roam over his face.

"I have seen them." A thrust. "In these circumstances." Another. "And they are glorious." Shelley was panting, struggling to keep his pace slow, and only once Keats began to counter his thrusts did he pound him harder.

"They certainly are," Byron admitted, almost as if it hurt to do so.

Keats, imagining it did, gave a small triumphant smile, then felt it fall from his lips as Byron slipped his hand between them, cradling him in his grip again, lifting him away from his own throbbing cock.

"Do hurry, Percy, or I shall explode before you are done."

Keats, even half delirious from Shelley's ever changing angles as he thrust into him, opened his mouth to ask if there was a proper order of climaxing here, when Shelley laughed shakily.

"I am enjoying myself at this pace, George. And you do not even know yet whether John will allow your massive prick inside him."

"What?" Keats breathed between moans.

Byron looked up at him, the hand not around his cock stroking the small of his back soothingly. "Will you let me fuck you after Percy has had you? It will not hurt by then."

Keats blinked down at the unexpectedly open face. "You will have to ask very nicely, my Lord."

Byron swore under his breath, even while looking mildly impressed, and Shelley gasped out a laugh. "Plead with him, George, beg, whatever it takes. Know when to be humble, for once, for he is worth it."

As if to prove himself right, he thrust once, twice more, his legs shaking with effort and his hands slipping over the curves of Keats' slight hips as he buried himself all the way inside him. Then he shuddered as he filled him, gasping out his name and a string of praises and endearments. A little later, he fell back on his haunches, taking Keats with him with both arms around his waist. They were both positioned over Byron's hips and thighs, and Shelley turned Keats' face back by his chin and kissed him eagerly and sweetly.

Byron closed his eyes, as if to compose himself, then looked up at the two men so lost in their kiss. He felt quite unwanted for once. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and one he did not relish. He reached out his left hand to caress Keats' straining thigh, and his right to stroke traces of clear fluid into the skin of his flat belly and, when the large deer eyes looked down at him, even while Shelley's mouth was yet clinging to the corner of the swollen lips, he made his plea.

"Please, John. Allow me to fuck you, ride my cock just as you are now - whichever way is agreeable to you - but please, let me have you."

Keats smirked, and he looked down at the straining, glistening thing, twitching with eagerness to be inside him. "Very well," he said magnanimously, "if I can accommodate this excess."

Shelley whispered into his ear, while Byron actually beamed up at him. "Climb him the moment I withdraw, to make it easiest and most delightful."

"And most messy," Keats said, as intrigued as he was horrified.

Shelley chuckled. "Certainly. It will make it that much better."

Keats looked down at Byron's self-satisfied face, let his hips be lifted by the motion of Shelley's and said, "I hope you are ready, my Lord."

Byron's eyes widened, and then Keats' delicate hands were on his rib cage, and he was being transferred from Shelley's cock right onto his. Byron's already over-stimulated, weeping member slid into the mingled wetness of semen and oil like a knife into butter - a very large knife into a normal sized dish of butter, admittedly - and he groaned at the sheer overwhelming sensation of it.

"God, you fucking... I would curse you both, if I was not so damnably desperate to come!" he grunted.

Shelley fell on his side on the blanket, laughing, watching the show with his head supported on one hand.

Keats, still gasping from the massive intruder and his own over-sensitivity, shuddered - with pleasure, a little pain, and a great deal of amusement.

And then Byron's hands were on his hips, fingers digging into them, as he lifted and lowered him in uneven, jerking motions. "Fuck!" He pressed the word through gritted teeth. "How can you still be so tight?"

Keats looked down at the strained features. "Give me a moment to adjust to you, you brute."

Astonishingly, and to Shelley's delight, Byron slowed his thrusts down to little more than desperate little jolts of his hips - an unprecedented degree of self-control from the man. The whole thing was, Shelley thought, rather like watching a Yorkshire Terrier taming a Great Dane.

"Better," Keats said, taking a deep breath. He closed his eyes and did his best to relax, feeling fuller than, he imagined, creation had ever meant for him to be. He let his head fall back until his dark red hair brushed the top of his spine, rocking up and down very slowly, exhaling on each down motion to ease his passage for the strain. There was no sound except for the huge cock sliding in and out of the sticky mess inside him, and the faint sloshing of tiny ripples on the lake behind. No sound at all. And he looked down at the man whose cock he was riding, and at Shelley looking up - both of them wore near identical expressions of adoration.

"How beautiful you are, my dear," Shelley whispered. "Like a delicate angel in the moonlight."

Keats smiled at him, feeling anything but angelic, and Byron grasped his thin wrists, drawing his attention, and said, rather raspily, "By Zeus, you are." He drew one of the wrists away from his own ribs, letting Keats tilt forward a little, and kissed it. "Does it still hurt?"

"No," Keats said softly. "Not now." And before he quite knew what was happening, Byron had spun them towards Shelley and reversed their positions, and was now above him, leaning down to kiss him again, his tongue seeking out Keats', more gently now than before. As he was kissed, his left leg was drawn up over Byron's hip and bent at the knee, and then the hand slid under his arse.

"Hold on, for I no longer can." The deep voice cracked a little, and Byron thrust into him in earnest then, pressing the slighter body into the blanket so firmly, Keats could feel blades of grass pricking him through the thread. Byron growled something against his smooth neck.

Keats couldn't make out the words, concentrating only on the tongue lapping at the spot, and the fingers digging into his right arse cheek, while he was being fucked with near desperation. He moaned, no longer in pain, but entirely in pleasure, as he clung to the broad back. He soon climaxed, streaking his own skin and Byron's right up to their chests. His voice was hoarse when he cried out.

"You feel spectacular. Like a silken vice," Byron grunted and, with one last thrust going as deep as Keats could take, he added his own spend to what was left of Shelley's.

Keats lay back, exhausted, legs sprawled. He winced when Byron withdrew. His retreat was followed by a stream of sticky fluids, soaking his buttocks, the space between them, and the wool beneath him. It took him a minute or two to find his voice. "Your blanket is ruined, Percy," he panted, "and so am I."

There was a moment's silence, before Byron snorted beside him, and Shelley was leaning over him. "I would sacrifice a thousands blankets to your pleasure, my Adonais." And Shelley kissed his slack mouth with utmost tenderness, licking it open and letting their lips and tongues play with one another, while his fingers lazily drew sticky patterns on his belly. Then he slid them between his legs to lightly touch his sensitive, wet opening.

Keats gasped a little. "Oh no."

"I am merely soothing you, my love, very carefully. I shan't spear you again." Shelley, true to his word, let his fingertips draw small circles around and over the puffy hole, as if to use the wetness there as its own salve. Whether or not the treatment was effective, he did not know, but it pleased Keats, who was looking at him out of his gentle hazel eyes as if he was a star in the sky.

Fingers played in Keats' hair, and Byron curled up against his side, still looking somewhat softer around the edges than usual. When Shelley pressed his face into the crook of Keats' neck, assuring his companions that a nap would be nice before getting cleaned up and dressed, he had neither the energy nor the will to resist, falling into a slumber with two warm bodies framing him, limbs curled over and around him.

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> Shelley created the name "Adonais" by combining the name for the Greek God of Beauty and Fertility, Adonis, and the Hebrew word, Adonai, meaning 'our Lord.' It is his name for Keats in "Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats", which is beautiful and heartbreaking; I choose to believe that a term so full of worship _might_ have been his endearment for him in life. 💕
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://sweetsorcery.tumblr.com/), and we can squee about this and maybe other pairings/fandoms we love. 


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